The Star-Gazers Part 29

Mrs Alleyne turned over three or four clean tablecloths, opening them out and looking wistfully at darns and frayings, and places where the clothes pegs had torn away the hems when they had been hung out to dry.

These she refolded with a sigh, and put back.

"Oh, my boy, my boy, if you only thought a little more about this world as well as the other worlds!" she sighed, as she closed the door, and, with her brow growing more wrinkled, wrung her hands over the pantry sink.

It was not that she had washed them, for the tap was dry, no water being ever pumped into the upper cistern, and the pantry was devoted to the reception of Mrs Alleyne's meagre stores.

There were cupboards here that held gla.s.s and china--good old china and gla.s.s; but in the one, there were marks of mendings and rivets, and in the other chips and, worse troubles, cracks, and odd gla.s.ses without feet, or whose feet were upon the next shelf.

"I don't know how we shall manage," sighed Mrs Alleyne, wringing her hands once more. "It was very, very thoughtless of him. The knives are worst of all."

She unrolled a packet or two, which contained nothing but table knives that had once been remarkably good, but which had done their work in company with hard usage, and some of which had shed their ivory handles, while others were thin and double edged, others again being bent at the points, or worn down by cleaning until they were about two-thirds of their original length.

"Dear me--dear me! how things do wear out!" sighed Mrs Alleyne; and, raising her eyes, she saw her face reflected in a little square gla.s.s hanging upon the wall--"even ourselves," she added, sadly.

Just then Lucy came in hurriedly.

"Oh, mamma," she cried, "I'm sure I don't know what we shall do. The more I look up things, the worse they seem. It is dreadful; it is horrible. I shall blush for shame."

"And why, may I ask?" said Mrs Alleyne, sternly.

"Because people will do nothing but spy out the poverty of the land.

Moray has no sense at all, or he would never have been so foolish as to ask them."

"Your brother had his own good reasons for asking Sir John Day, his brother, and his daughter, and I beg that you will not speak in that disrespectful way of your brother's plans."

"But you don't see, mamma."

"I see everything, my child," said Mrs Alleyne, stiffly.

"But you don't think how awkward it will be."

"Yes, I have thought of all that."

"But Moray never does. How are we to entertain people who are accustomed to live in luxury, and who have abundance of plate and china and gla.s.s, and servants to wait upon them? Oh, we shall look ridiculous."

"Lucy!"

"I don't care, mamma, I can't help it. I've been working away to see if I could not get things in proper trim to do us justice, but it is horrible. Moray must write and tell them they are not to come."

"My son shall do nothing of the kind, Lucy, and I desire that you do the best you can, so that Moray may be content."

"But, mamma, we have no flowers, no fruit for dessert, no pretty gla.s.s and vases; and I know the dinner will be horrible."

"Moray asked the Days to come and see us, not our household arrangements, and we must give them some dinner before they go up into the observatory."

"Oh, very well, mamma," said Lucy, "I have protested. You and Moray must have it your own way."

"Of course," said Mrs Alleyne, composedly; "and I beg that you will find no more fault with your brother's arrangements."

"No, mamma: I have done."

"I dare say Captain Rolph very often dines far worse at his mess than we shall dine to-morrow."

"But surely he is not coming, mamma," cried Lucy in horror; "he will be jeering at everything."

"If he is so extremely ungentlemanly, it is no fault of ours. Yes, he is coming; and, by the way, I did not tell you, I have just asked Mr Oldroyd to join us."

"Mamma!" cried Lucy, turning scarlet.

"Now don't exclaim against that, my dear," said Mrs Alleyne. "I am sure it will be almost a charity to have him here. He cannot be too grand for our simple ways."

Poor Lucy shrank away looking very thoughtful, and, resigning herself to fate, went busily about the house, working like a little slave, and arranging the place to the best advantage; but only to break down at last, with a piteous burst of tears, as she saw how miserable a result she had achieved, and compared her home with that of Glynne.

Mrs Alleyne was not in much better spirits, indulging herself as she did in various wringings of the hands in closets and corners, but all in the most furtive way, as she too thought of the barrenness of the house.

The next morning the preparations for the little dinner were in hurried progress, Lucy busily working with gloomy resignation, and the kitchen given over to the woman who had come to cook. Then the large covered cart from Brackley drew up to the gate, and upon Eliza going down, the man who drove helped her to unbar the great gates, and led his horse in and right round to the kitchen door.

He was the bearer of a note for Mrs Alleyne, and while Eliza had taken it in, and the recipient was reading it, to afterwards hand it over to Lucy, Sir John's man began unloading the cart in the most matter-of-fact way, and arranging things upon the kitchen dresser.

"What does he say, that he begs your pardon, and knowing that we have no garden, would we accept a few trifles of flowers and a little fruit?"

Mrs Alleyne frowned, and the shadow on her countenance deepened after Sir John's man had departed with the cart, for the trifles sent over were a magnificent collection of cut flowers, with grapes, a pine, hot-house peaches, and nectarines and plums.

Lucy coloured with pleasure, for all was most thoughtfully contrived.

Even choice leaves in a neat bunch were included, ready for decorating the fruit in the dessert dishes. But directly after she could not help sharing her mother's annoyance--it seemed so like looking upon them as poor.

"It is almost an insult," said Mrs Alleyne at last.

Lucy looked up at her wistfully, with the cloud now crossing her own bright little face.

"It is because we live in so humble a manner," cried Mrs Alleyne, angrily. "It is cruel--a display of arrogance--because I choose to live quietly that Moray may proceed with his great discoveries in science."

Lucy gazed at her mother's face, in which she could read the growing anger and mortification.

"Oh, I wish Moray had not been so ready to invite them," she said to herself.

"The things shall go back," exclaimed Mrs Alleyne at last.

"Oh, mamma," whispered Lucy, clinging to her and trying to calm her anger, "don't--pray don't say that. It is only a present of fruit and flowers, after all."

"You will not send the things back, mamma."

Mrs Alleyne was silent for a few moments, and then said huskily,--

"No: they shall remain, but Moray must not know; and mind this, Lucy, when they come there is sure to be an offer for the man-servant to stop and wait. This must be declined."

"Oh, yes, mamma," cried Lucy, excitedly, as she began to imagine Sir John's footman being witness of the shifts made in re-washing plates, and forks, and spoons.